


The Best of Two Bad Choices

by Skalidra



Series: DC Mirror!verse [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Consent Issues, Control, Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne - Freeform, M/M, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 10:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When Captain Grayson's ship, the Nightwing, gets an unexpected hail in the middle of what should be unoccupied space, it's not a pleasant surprise. Even less of one when the call is from a man named 'Slade,' apparently part of the black-ops section of Starfleet known as Section Thirty-One. Above everyone but the ruling couple themselves, even Dick's owner, Admiral Wayne. Slade wants his ship, and he's not used to having no protection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is my first contribution to SladeRobin Week over on Tumblr. There's a pretty varying collection of them, and some I co-wrote with Firefright, so you'll see those come up as well over the course of the week. This first one is another piece of my Mirror!Verse Star Trek collection, inspired by one lovely anon who asked me if I'd thought about where Slade fit into this little world. Well, here's your answer. XD
> 
> This is for Day 1 of SladeRobin Week: Possession. [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (For universe information, Section 31 in the normal Star Trek universe is a covert-ops section of the government that operates outside of Starfleet and, sometimes, any oversight at all. They're very morally grey, and do basically anything and everything that needs doing but Starfleet can't be remotely connected to. Assassinations, plots, etc. So... in my mirror!verse world, given that the whole culture is somewhat evil anyway, Section 31 is a much more known-about thing. They're still covert/black-ops, and they still act outside of almost any oversight, but nearly everyone knows they exist.)

It's a quiet day when the call comes through to his ship.

Dick narrows his eyes when his helmsman turns to look back at him, sounding confused as he says, "Captain, we're being hailed. It's an Imperial code; high clearance."

Neither of them say it, but everyone on his bridge knows that there's not supposed to be anyone else in their section of space. They're not in warp, but they've only dropped out for an hour or two to make a brief pit-stop at a hidden Imperial cache on an otherwise abandoned moon. The planet is uninhabitable but doesn't mess with sensors, the moon is a lifeless hunk of rock, and someone should have _told_ him if they were picking up anything on long-range scans, which are _mandatory_ before accessing a cache like this. There's no one Imperial that should be able to get close enough to hail them without showing up on those scans.

"Nothing on scans?" he asks, just to make sure that no one has massively fucked up and deserves a blast from his phaser.

A moment of pause, and then an almost-relieved, "No, sir. Not even a blip, and no irregularities in the history."

Cloaking, maybe? He knows the Empire is supposed to be working on cloaking tech, but from what he's heard it's not actually in production yet. Surely Bruce would have told him.

"Put it through."

"Yes, sir."

Dick carefully eases out his expression as the hail is accepted, and the view screen flicks into the call. It's the standard view; a more up-close shot of what presumably is the captain in his chair. No crewmen visible in the back of the shot, unlike what Dick knows his own image looks like. The man is on the bigger side, and the older. Mid-length white hair falling in an angled, rougher cut to roughly the length of his jaw. Clean-shaven, with good-looking features and a minimum of lines for his age (maybe slightly older than Bruce). A single blue eye watches him over the curl of a smirk, the other covered by a white eyepatch that obscures whatever damage is there.

The man's not bad looking, all things considered. He's also utterly unfamiliar. (Dick was _pretty_ sure that he knew every captain's face, at least by sight if not by name.) But then, he's not wearing command gold, and there are no pips on the collar of the black uniform, even though it is a high collar. Definitely a captain; no opportunity to show off ownership with that collar.

He offers the man a smile, hiding his dislike of being at such a disadvantage behind the charm.

 _"Captain Grayson,"_ the man starts, through that smirk. Dick holds his smile; the bastard knows his name. _"A pleasure to meet you."_

"Captain," is all Dick offers back, but still the man smirks a little wider.

 _"Not precisely."_ The man motions to someone off screen; a command Dick can't quite decipher without the context. _"We're with Section Thirty-One. Drop your shields and allow us to board; your ship is required for an operation we're running."_

Dick grips the arm of his chair a little tighter, keeping his smile through pure force of will. Give up his ship? Not likely. Not even to the sneaks of Section Thirty-One. "We're in the middle of a mission; we have orders—”

_"On hold until we're done. Shields down, Captain; I'd hate to have to damage your ship just to get you to cooperate."_

His teeth grit together for a bare moment, smile falling. He pushes himself off the chair to disguise it, and by the time he's on his feet he's managing to smile again. Sharper, he's sure, but at least he isn't visibly irritated. "I'll need to see proof of your identity; you understand."

_"Of course. It's being forwarded to you."_

His helmsman's console pings with the incoming message, and Dick moves forward to lean over him and read the displayed information. Not that it's much. The man's picture, a codename — 'Slade' — and a mess of blacked out information beside an authorization code that comes through as valid when Dick inputs it into the console. He wants to grind his teeth together at that information, his eyes narrowing, but he forces the urge away. He can't help losing a power play to someone of higher rank; his chances were low to begin with.

"Lower the shields," he orders, as he straightens up. He meets 'Slade's' gaze, letting one hand rest on the back of his helmsman's chair. "You're welcome aboard. I'll tell my crew not to shoot."

Slade gives a low chuckle; the call drops off and allows his view screen to return to the view of the moon. Dick lets his smile fall then, flashing a thin sneer at the screen — no more, his crew is watching — before walking back to his chair. He drops into it, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back into it. A tap of his fingers to the command console built into the arm opens a channel to the rest of the ship.

"This is Captain Grayson," he starts, listening to his voice echo out of the speakers, "everyone listen up. We've got some members of Section Thirty-One coming aboard; they have authorization, so keep your knives away, boys and girls. Anyone who attacks one of them answers to me." He lets that information hang in the air for a moment, then finally adds, "We've still got work to do; continue with your duties until there are further orders."

He's only barely turned the comm off again when there's the shimmering light of transports on the desk; three separate ones spread across the bridge. Dick stands, facing the closest — just a few feet away from his chair. It solidifies into Slade, and he… he maybe underestimated just how big the man is. Broad shoulders, long legs; taller than Bruce but maybe a little bit leaner. Just barely. His head has to tilt back to meet the man's gaze, and he feels… dwarfed. He pretty rarely feels dwarfed.

"Captain," Slade greets, with that same faint curl of his mouth. Dick doesn't outright look at the phaser and sheathed knife strapped to his hip, but he notes them. "You'll surrender command of your ship to me. Your crew will be treated well as long as they behave; I trust you have enough control over them to make that happen?"

"Of course."

"Good. Do it." Dick pauses instead of immediately obeying, and Slade steps closer, a hand lifting to trace knuckles down the side of his cheek. "This will go easier if you behave for me, boy," he murmurs, possibly even low enough that no one else on the bridge hears. "You'll get your ship back when I'm done with it; I'm not even planning on harming it." A flick of that one-eyed gaze down his frame, and a drop of his voice into lower registers. "Or you."

Dick can understand the threat in that without it being spelled out for him. He's _not_ giving this up that easily though, not without threat of his own. He leans closer, letting his gaze lower and his lashes flutter before he looks up and smiles, all charm and beauty and everything that makes him dangerous to anyone fooled by his looks. "The last time someone touched me," he murmurs, tilting his head into the brush of those knuckles, "they _died_. I'm not big on behaving."

Dick pulls away, turning his back to head back to his chair and ignoring the chuckle from behind him. His cheek feels warm where Slade's knuckles dragged across it, but he ignores that too.

"This is the captain to all crew," he says into the comm. "The agents from Section Thirty-One will be taking control of the ship to complete an operation of theirs. Stand down and follow their instruction."

He feels a light pressure against his hip and spins around, too late to stop the theft of his phaser or to try and take it back as it spins between Slade's fingers and he steps back. He barely even felt the touch, never heard the footsteps that must have been taken to get Slade close enough to steal it.

A smile is aimed at him. "Just for safekeeping."

Dick hates that he can't argue.

* * *

Slade takes his ship, his crew, his _chair_ , and his room in short order. He's relegated to standing aside and watching, mute in the command of his own ship while Slade orders it off to locations that he doesn't share with anyone but the helmsman on duty. He has to push one of his lieutenants out of their room to have a decent place to sleep, and he has to _ask_ for entrance to his own damn rooms to collect copies of his uniform so he can actually get dressed in clean clothes. Slade smirks, grants it, and watches him from the doorway the whole time.

Dick hates every second of it. Slade is an arrogant bastard, and it's been a long time since he was this irritated about someone eyeing him up at every opportunity but then again, no one has had the power to do anything to him in a long time. An admiral would require direct permission from Bruce to do anything even remotely like this, and _no one_ has permission to touch him unless he instigates. (Even those, usually he gets permission for from Bruce beforehand; it isn't smart to tempt his jealousy.)

Having someone come in and just _take_ everything from him like this… An hour hasn't gone by where he hasn't imagined some way to kill the man.

Slade's lieutenant, an even older man 'named' Wintergreen (do Section Thirty-One operatives not advance through assassination like the normal ranks?) seems like a more professional type. If _he_ was in control instead of Slade, then maybe they could be amicable about all this. It wouldn't be a constant test of trying to endure the looks and the constant disregard that this is _his_ ship. Even the rest of the agents treat the ship, and the crew as far as he's seen, more like tools than underlings. It's just _Slade_ that's the problem.

For four nights Dick goes to sleep staring at the hilt of the blade beneath his borrowed pillow. On the fifth, he decides that's _enough._

Securing the two smaller blades against the inside of his wrists, beneath the sleeves, is easy. He doesn't have a phaser, and that weakness frustrates him, but if he just gets close enough, fast enough…

His back is straight when he walks onto the bridge, brushing aside the growing irritation at the lack of recognition, and at the sight of Slade standing behind his helmsman, one hand on his shoulder. Wally is one of his best officers, and one of his most loyal; the thought of Slade taking _one more_ of his things bothers him more than he's willing to admit. This has gone on long enough. He's the _captain_ of this ship, and Section Thirty-One or not he's owed _respect._ If Slade won't give it, Dick will make sure he's replaced by someone who will.

He doesn't offer any warning. The bigger knife at his hip slides smoothly out of its sheath, and one member of the bridge crew catches sight of him but doesn't call any sort of warning either; why would she?

One long stride brings him close enough to strike, and suddenly Slade is turning on him. He's already committed to the movement, but when his gaze catches on Slade's he notices with odd clarity that there's no surprise in it. Then a booted foot lands in his gut and the whole thing snaps back to real time. He hits the ground breathless, fingers spasming around the hilt of the blade but refusing to let go. He rolls back to his feet, teeth baring as Slade stalks towards him. Slow, deliberate, and not remotely worried. The bastard is still smirking, and now they've gained an audience.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to snap," Slade comments; he doesn't seem to be reaching for either of the two phasers at his side, or the knife between them. "You lasted longer than I thought you would; temper like you have."

It's hard to respond, still combating having the breath knocked out of him, but Dick makes himself smile, too sharp edged to be friendly, and spit, "Shouldn't play with fire, agent."

He's the one to strike, and then suddenly Slade is stepping into it and ducking low under his arm. A hand closes around his, thumb pressing to the back of it and twisting _hard._ Pain slashes up his arm, instinct dropping his shoulder and turning him into that simple touch so suddenly that he smacks into the side of the captain's chair as Slade drags him around. The knife drops from his nerveless fingers, and Slade lets go of his hand and then shoves him forward with a sharp blow between his shoulder blades with the opposite hand.

Dick staggers forward, spinning around the moment he has his footing again. It's just in time to watch Slade flip the knife he took and drive it into the back of his chair with one hard swing of his arm. It sticks there as Slade heads for him with those same slow, stalking steps. Despite his size, and his age, he moves like some of the more deadly fauna that Dick's had the pleasure of watching hunt. Smooth, graceful, and completely focused on the prey at hand. Which would be him, in this analogy.

Alright, fine. He still has his smaller knives, and he's one of the best hand-to-hand experts on the ship. He can handle this.

When Slade smacks the first of the two blades out of his hand like swatting a fly and then lands a sharp strike with two knuckles into a soft spot, just in from his armpit, that makes most of his right side go numb for a shivery flash of a moment, Dick reassesses that thought. The loss of his second knife to a painful wrist lock that slams him to his knees, and the follow up kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling across the floor to smack into the wall, confirms his reassessment.

He gets back up to Slade still advancing on him, driving him to the side and then backwards across the bridge. He can't find openings, he can't land a hit or find any opportunity to gain the advantage, and every time Slade hits him it's somewhere precise and sensitive that makes some part of him flush numb or sends agony sparking through his nerves. By the time Slade slams him into the opposite wall by his throat, holding him off the ground like it's nothing, about the best he can manage is to kick out at his knees and hope something hits. It doesn't, but Slade does throw him back across the bridge to land, sprawling, near the center between the two navigational consoles at the front.

It takes him a precious second to roll over and struggle to his knees, breath coming in ragged gasps through the pain in his chest. A boot shoves him back down to the floor, pressing down between his shoulder blades to pin him to the ground. Then a hand closes around his right — already hurt — wrist and twists his whole arm up into the air. The force drives his shoulder into the floor, and he bites into his own lip to avoid giving any vocal indication of the pain of the angle. He can nearly hear how his shoulder is grinding against itself with every minuscule twitch, aching pain spreading out across his back and into his neck, and he thinks if Slade pushes it any further it might break. He presses his cheek into the floor, digs the fingers of his free hand into it and focuses on just _breathing_.

Slade's boot lifts off his back, but only to a moment later press to the back of his head instead. "I trust no one else is going to cause any trouble," Slade says, voice low but carrying across the silent deck. There's no reply, but whatever sort of response he gets must be enough to satisfy because a few moments later the boot slides off the back of Dick's head and his arm is unceremoniously dropped. "Good. Come on, boy."

Dick gasps in a breath when fingers take a fistful of his hair and drag him up to his knees, pulling him with as Slade heads towards the captain's chair and making him awkwardly scramble to keep up instead of being hauled along like dead weight. He tries not to look at any of his crew, sure he knows the kind of look they must have (he's been beaten, been _toyed_ with in front of them; now there's blood in the water), and that's easy enough because Slade slams him down over the arm of the chair and takes his wrist to twist it back again. The angle isn't as punishing this time, but his shoulder feels abused and sore already and it doesn't take much to make him grimace.

He hears the _ping_ of the comm system, and doesn't have time to process it before Slade is drawling, "Crew of the Nightwing, this is Slade, the leader of the Section Thirty-One operatives that you've been hosting the past few days. Your captain just attempted an assassination; why don't you say hello, Captain Grayson?"

The hand on his wrist twists his shoulder _sharply_ backwards, and Dick can't help but cry out, his back arching to try and curve into the hold. Until the hand eases, it doesn't occur to him that he's given Slade exactly what he wants and every, _single_ member of his crew currently awake just heard him.

"Your captain will be confined to quarters for the rest of the trip," Slade continues, idly. "Anyone else who tries this will be executed; I'm not interested in insubordination. I trust I've made myself clear."

He ends the comm.

Dick grits his teeth and manages not to give Slade the satisfaction of any more sounds of pain when he's yanked up off the arm of the chair and then released and shoved down to the floor at its base. He can hear Slade stepping around him.

"Cuff him, take him to my rooms, and secure him there." A boot nudges beneath his chin, lifting his head and gaze up to Slade's, what feels like miles above. That single eye rakes over his face, then the length of his curled back. "Don't hurt him too much more; be a shame to damage something that pretty."

Hands grab his arms and pull them behind his back, cuffing him with a set of heavy-feeling, whirring tech handcuffs that he doesn't recognize the feel of. They're sturdy whatever they are, he can feel that at a single pull. He's pulled to his feet by two sets of relatively gentle hands, one of them closing in his hair the same way that Slade's did to arch his neck back as they manhandle him towards the door. He catches one glimpse of Slade pulling the knife from the back of the captain's chair before the doors to the turbolift close.

His escorts — Slade's men, in the same plain black uniform — don't speak to him. The door to what used to be his quarters, and is currently Slade's, opens for them without hesitation. Again, Dick finds himself wondering how ranking works with these operatives; your subordinates having access to your room is such a _massive_ breach of security and if one of them wants to put a knife in your skull that could mean the difference between life and death. Really though, that thought is just a distraction for the two of them pulling him into the bedroom and dragging him to the bed.

It's a good bed, he designed and got it specifically with Bruce in mind, but right now he hates the thought he put into it. He hates that when the two of them drag him onto it, despite how he fights them, it only takes them half a moment to disconnect and reconnect the cuffs around the ornate, steel headboard and into one of the little circles in it that make for perfect latch points. That's when the two of them withdraw, now openly smirking in a way all too similar to Slade's arrogance.

"How do you think we should wrap him?" one asks the other, arms crossing and a mockingly contemplative look sliding across his expression.

Dick grits his teeth and glares, even as the other gives him a long, slow rake of eyes down his frame and back up it. "I'd do something with those legs, to start."

He fights when they come at him, but with his hands already bound he doesn't really stand a chance. They wrestle him down without much effort, pinning him face down and working his boots and socks off before tying each ankle to the same thigh with straps they get from _god_ knows where. That's about when he starts to wonder if this whole thing was already planned out. Slade did mention that he'd been wondering how long it would take. If this was all just some trap that he fell right into, and he's starting to think it was… God, Bruce is going to kill him for being so _stupid_.

They gag him despite the threat of his teeth, and although he growls protest through it one of them shoves his shirt up his ribs to bare most of his stomach, and then lowers a hand to pull down the zipper on his pants. He's expecting the rough grope of a hand against his cock, but it doesn't come. They're laughing as they leave him, his shirt pushed up and the fly of his pants open to bare the black briefs he has on beneath them. The door closes and silence falls on him, apart from the whistle of his own breathing past the gag between his teeth. At least it's a simple one, no metal to pull his mouth open or insert to leave him sucking some fake cock.

He squirms around for awhile, trying to figure out if he can get anything loose enough to slip out of, but nothing gives. He's stuck. Finding a comfortable position is his next goal, and to his own frustration he realizes there are only a couple, and he doesn't like any of them. Instead of being on his back, knees pulled up to his chest, he opts for being face down instead. It allows him to stretch out the farthest, and it covers both the extra 'adjustments' made to his clothing.

He doesn't know how long he waits there. Time blurs out after awhile, with no real sounds or other inputs to keep him grounded. He tries counting, but loses track twice and gives in after that. So he drifts, shifting against the restraints on occasion to keep himself awake, because he is _not_ dumb enough to fall asleep trapped like this, with Slade due back at some point. All he really knows is that by the time he hears the chime of the door opening, startling him out of his haze, his arms and his legs are aching dully and he is really starting to need to pee.

That's… not entirely unfamiliar, if he's being honest. Bruce's favorite thing has always been control, and Dick is very, very used to restraints. But never from anyone else; no one else has _ever_ managed to get him restrained before.

He twists, shifting to get his knees a little bit higher so he can brace on them as he looks back towards the arch. Slade appears a moment later, stopping to lean against the side of it and look at him, mouth curling up at both corners. Dick bites down on the gag, glaring as best he can at the strange angle and trying not to move. He's not giving a show.

"You really are a very pretty thing," Slade says, voice softer than anything he's heard so far. "Did you really think you were going to manage to kill me, boy? Did you overestimate your own skill, or underestimate mine?"

All he can do without looking like an idiot is glare some more.

Slade pushes off the arch, strolling closer with all the leisure of someone who already knows they've won. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Let's talk about your immediate future, shall we?" He sits down on the bed, a hand lifting to trail fingers along the small gap of skin bared by how Dick's shirt is rucked up. "You're a smart boy, Grayson, or you wouldn't have gotten this far. You can't be trusted, so you're going to spend the rest of this trip locked in this room, but you can choose how pleasant that stay is."

Dick stays still, watching Slade, as that hand slides up his back and into his hair, undoing the strap for the gag. He spits it out the second he can, wetting his lips and taking a deep breath; the fingers in his hair stay, scratching over his scalp. He considers for a moment. Then, coming to the conclusion that the chance of him gaining the upper hand is almost nothing, he offers a low, "I'm listening."

"Good boy. Now I don't care if you cooperate; I'm going to fuck you either way. You're pretty, and I'm not much for restraint when it comes to claiming rewards I've earned.”

“Inspiring way to get someone to behave,” he snipes, and Slade cuffs the back of his head hard enough to smack his face into the pillow.

He turns his head to take a breath, and Slade’s hand wraps around the back of his neck and squeezes just tight enough to threaten bruises. “You haven’t been at a disadvantage in a long time, have you?” He doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, because the next moment he eases the grip and slides the fingers back up into his hair. “That’s alright, you’ll remember. Now if you don’t think you can behave, just say so. I’ll get you a nice cot for the floor, and you can stay tied up on it until I’m done with your ship. Or, if you think you can, I can let you out of these and you can be more than an open hole for me. Sleep on the bed and everything. One of those choices is a lot more fun than the other, Grayson.”

Dick studies his expression, trying to find the knife hidden behind the choice. It’s there, he knows it is. Giving him more chances to end Slade wouldn’t come without some sort of steel trap attached, and he can’t _see_ it.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, Slade laughs and then leans down over him to say, “Not making sense, boy? Let me make it clear. If I let you out of these restraints and you take _one_ shot at me, snap your teeth or tell me ‘no’ or displease me in any way, I’ll put a hole right through that pretty face of yours. Is that clear enough for you?”

His eyes widen. Slade _looks_ sincere, but there’s no way he can be. He can’t just—

“You can’t kill me,” he says, disbelief coloring all his words with a sharp edge. “I belong to—”

“Admiral Wayne,” Slade finishes, and then pulls hard enough at his hair that he has to bite back a hiss of pain as his neck cranes back. Slade’s lips brush his ear, voice a low whisper. “Here’s the thing: I don’t answer to admirals. Section Thirty-One is under the direct command of the ruling couple, when anyone commands us at all. I could carve you into bloody pieces and your admiral wouldn’t be able to lift a finger against me. After all, you attacked _me_ , remember, Grayson?”

Dick breathes through his teeth, and it shames him but he can’t help shuddering. No one… No one has had his _life_ in their hands since before the Academy. Bruce took ownership of him while he was still in it, declared it loud and clear, and people have threatened to hurt him, used him when he screwed up enough to let them get away with it (not for a _long_ time), but no one ever dared to actually threaten his life. The only threats to his life are Bruce’s enemies, and they wouldn’t risk going for him first and risking retribution.

Slade’s teeth close over the lobe of his ear, making his breath catch sharply, before letting go. “You can have a couple minutes to decide,” he grants, letting go of his hair and pulling away.

He watches as Slade moves away, crossing the room to slip into his bathroom and out of sight. Pressing his face into the pillow lets him mostly ignore the sound of Slade relieving himself, which reminds him too much of his own need.

Taking the cot is the safer option. God knows what Slade might demand of him, and there are a few kinks he’s not interested in satisfying for anyone, let alone this arrogant bastard. Not having the option to argue, or even to strike if things go too far for his tastes, is not a handicap that he remotely likes. Bruce has pushed his limits more than a few times, but never far and never into anything he genuinely _hated_. They have… an understanding. More of a connection than anyone can ever know. He has no such guarantees with Slade, and no frame of reference for what he might be into. Control is an easy guess, but past that? Unknowns are dangerous.

But staying locked on that cot for who knows how long — he _still_ doesn’t know how long this trip will take — will damage him in a much more physical sense. Having his limbs bound for that theoretically long will make him a soft target when he’s released, and he _can’t_ be a soft target. Not after the public show on the bridge, and Slade making him voice that pain across a ship-wide channel. He’ll need to reestablish his control and his dominance as quickly as possible, because there are all too many knives that would take advantage if he appeared to be anything less than just as capable as he has been till now. His crew are loyal enough, but loyalty rarely means anything in the face of possible advancement.

Going to their medic immediately won't fix it. _He'll_ be fixed, but his image will still suffer. They'll say he was _weak_ , that he was _hurt_.

 _Damnit_.

Slade reemerges, watching him from the doorway for a moment before heading over. He shifts, turning his head to look up, as Slade takes a seat on the bed beside him. One hand lifts, brushing his hair away from his face with almost disturbing gentleness.

"Make a decision, Grayson?"

He hesitates. "Don't suppose I get to know what kind of kinks you're into before I answer, do I?"

Slade's mouth curls into a crooked smirk that shows just enough teeth it makes him wary. "No, you don't."

"And if I say yes," he starts, gritting his teeth together for a moment, "and there's something I know I can't control myself during, can I change my mind?"

The question is considered for a good length of time, Slade's head tilting to the side as he looks down at him. Finally, he says, "If it's something that you would genuinely rather risk death than do, then yes. But if I think you're doing it for anything less than that, my promise stands." A thumb strokes down the side of his cheek. "A hole, right through here. And Grayson? I read people _very_ well."

He believes it.

Dick's glad in that moment that he doesn't really have room to pull away from the thumb, because he's pretty sure he would have and he thinks that might make things worse. Maybe not, but he still doesn't know enough about Slade to make a guess he's confident about. That's the whole _problem._ If this were any of the other admirals, or most captains, he would know what answer to give. He _knows_ those people; what they like, how far they'll push, how they can be played, but here? He has nothing.

God how he _hates_ it.

"Time for an answer, boy," Slade prods him, brushing his hair back again.

Dick inhales, resisting clenching his hands or glaring how he wants to. He meets Slade's gaze.

"Alright; I'll do it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So this is _all_ porn, I hope you guys enjoy. ~~(Also, fair warning, there's... Okay, I'm not going to call it watersports because it's not, but there is high-grade control kink involving said activities. It's all very neat and non-explicit, promise.)~~
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Slade smiles, slow and self-assured and Dick wants to claw it right off his face. Instead, he fights back a shiver as Slade’s fingers slide down his cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw before coming to rest against his bottom lip. He’s tempted to be difficult, but Slade’s gaze is steady and piercing and Dick remembers the threat against his life all too well, so he lets his lips part a little in invitation instead of locking his teeth.

It’s fine, all of this will be fine. He’ll play his part, be the good little toy, and then he’ll get back to being captain of his ship and eviscerate the first person who tries to make a move against him. Just because Slade’s a bastard doesn’t mean this is any different than what he’s occasionally done before. Play nice, be pleasing, and he’ll get out of this with nothing more than bad memories. He can chalk it up as a learning experience.

The invitation is accepted. One long finger slides into his mouth, and he lightly closes his teeth around it as he looks up through half-shuttered eyes, twining his tongue around the digit. A slight taste of salt, but nothing offensive, which he’s distantly grateful for. If he was going to allow himself to be grateful about any of this.

Slade’s other hand presses to his shoulder, and Dick offers no resistance when it pushes and rolls him onto his back. The finger in his mouth becomes two, the heel of Slade’s hand hooking beneath his chin to push his throat into an arch. Dick closes his eyes and relaxes his jaw and lets the two fingers slide over his tongue in a mimicry of thrusting; he can almost pretend it’s Bruce, if he were stupid enough to try that.

The fingers slide free, painting his bottom lip wet and then sliding down his throat in one slow stroke that makes Dick remember how very helpless he is. Not a feeling he likes, but he breathes out and lets the fingers hook at the collar of his uniform when there’s no more skin on their path. A small tug arches his neck a bit higher and then the fingers slide free, but apparently only so the whole hand can slide around the back of his neck, fingers curling partly into his hair and lifting his head off the pillow. Dick opens his eyes only because it sounds suicidal to do anything else. Slade’s got an amused sort of indulgence in his gaze, and it’s all too similar to how Bruce sometimes looks at him.

“Seems a crime that only your admiral gets to enjoy you, boy. All these months out by yourself; have you got some toy aboard to warm your bed? Some pretty mouth to suck your cock?”

Slade seems to actually want an answer, so Dick wets his lips and goes with one that’s never failed him. “Well, mine happens to be the prettiest on board. That’s always worked for me.”

Slade puts it together faster than most people he tells, single eye heating as he gives a dry chuckle. “I bet that trick earned you quite a bit. You come that way, or did your admiral teach it to you?”

“Taught it to me.”

He’s always been flexible, but Bruce was the one to test those limits, pushing him a little further each time until he was finally satisfied. There was rarely a day, in the Academy, that Dick didn’t wake with muscles sore from the strain of some stretch or another. He always relished that reminder that he was owned. Protected.

“Why don’t you show me?” Slade says, and Dick breathes a tiny bit easier as Slade’s free hand undoes the straps holding his thighs and ankles bound together. It slides from there to the apex of his legs, large enough to palm the entirety of his still-limp cock through his briefs and have room left over. “I think I’d enjoy seeing you come in your own mouth.”

Yeah, most people think that.

Slade gropes his cock a bit more firmly, and Dick grits his teeth and groans as the need in his bladder snaps back to the forefront of his mind. The pressure against his cock is near torturous, and only a hard tensing of muscle keeps his body from giving into that instinctive need.

“Before we start,” he gasps, forcing himself to look Slade in the eye, “can I have a moment?”

Slade smirks, presses his hand down in a rolling wave of motion that very nearly makes Dick lose his tenuous control. The, “Ask for what you need, boy,” is mocking enough that Dick is sure given normal circumstances he would have disemboweled anyone who dared to aim that tone at him.

He doesn’t glare, by a thin margin. He breathes in, softens his voice, widens his eyes a little to make himself look just a little desperate. He knows this game. It’s not one that’s ever taken quite this tone before (Bruce prefers honest desperation to faked niceties), but he’s played it enough to be good at it regardless. He can moderate himself; he can _do_ this.

“May I please use the bathroom, sir?” Dick asks, keeping his voice breathy. He doesn’t add the ‘unless you’re into this,’ but it occurs to him. It rankles, but he braces himself for that particular humiliation, just in case.

There’s a moment of studying, the smirk never wavering. Then, “Alright. Since you asked so nicely, Grayson.”

The hand comes off his cock, lifting to the headboard to disengage the cuffs. One wrist comes free, and then Slade’s pulling him up by the grip on his neck, rising off the bed and dragging him with. Dick thinks he manages fairly gracefully, considering. A hand clamps around his freed wrist and pulls it back again, and Dick bites his tongue not to complain as the cuffs lock again. At least they’re only at his back; he can get his legs through the loop if he needs to and have his hands in front of him. Not with Slade watching, of course, but he could do it.

“I’m sure you’d behave,” Slade comments, steering him forward by the grip at his neck, “but I just like how you look in them, Captain. I’m sure your admiral shares that appreciation.”

It’s not a question, so he doesn’t answer.

The bathroom’s bigger than in anyone else’s quarters, with the luxury of a real-water shower, but that doesn’t mean that it’s actually _big_. With Slade at his back, it doesn’t feel like enough space. Not nearly.

The toilet’s still out, apparently from when Slade used it, and it’s barely even occurred to Dick to wonder how he’s going to use it with his hands bound before Slade’s reaching down into his pants.

He can’t help how he jerks — surprised by the touch and unable to hide it — and then makes a sharp sound of protest in the next moment, virulently against the implication here. But then the hand on his neck tightens till it aches, and Slade’s hand is curling around his cock tightly enough to be a clear warning, and Dick goes utterly still as reality catches up with his reaction. He can’t— He has to accept this. There’s no other option.

He makes himself relax, tipping his head back a little.

“That’s better,” Slade murmurs, grips easing. The hand down there pushes Dick’s briefs and uniform down just enough to free his cock. “This isn’t a kink of mine,” come the idle words, as Slade takes his dick in hand and nudges him just slightly forward to stand in front of the toilet, “but I think you need a real physical reminder that you’re not in control here. And I think you should be grateful that I’m being tame about it.”

“Tame?” Dick echoes, to distract himself. He has to say it through his teeth, but he gets it out.

Slade hums, hand sliding around to cup the front of his throat. “I could be doing much worse than just aiming your cock, boy. So you probably shouldn’t keep me waiting too long, or I might decide you need a harsher lesson. I guarantee you’ll like that even less.”

This is ridiculous. What is he _doing_ letting himself get unnerved by this? It’s just a hand. It’s just control. He’s given control to Bruce plenty of times, there’s no point in balking at this.

(Given, not had it taken from him.)

The body at his back is tall and powerful in a familiar way, and that little familiarity is probably the only reason that Dick manages to fix his gaze up near the ceiling, off to the side, and just… let go. The humiliation makes his throat tight, more than the hand around it does, and his cheeks _burn_.

It’s the sound that’s the worst. Not the feeling of his hands cuffed at his back or the hand around his cock, but the sound. It feels like being _owned_ , more than Bruce has ever claimed. Down to his bones Dick feels _violated_. He _hates_ it.

Slade’s lips press to his hair as the flow becomes a trickle, and then ceases completely. “Good boy,” he murmurs. “You understand now, don’t you? What your place is?”

Dick forces his jaw loose enough to say, “Yes, sir.” He even manages to not say it with all the hatred and anger heating his chest, coiling tight at the back of his throat where he can’t let it out.

“You’re a liar, boy,” is whispered into his ear, rich with amusement but still enough to make Dick’s back go stiff, “but we can work on that. We’ve got time, and you’re not the first boy I’ve met that needed to be brought to _heel_.”

Hands let go, a leg snaps sideways and sweeps his calves, and Dick hits the ground before he’s fully recognized anything is happening. It’s his shoulder that takes the impact, and he gasps in pain as the dull force reawakens whatever damage Slade did to it in their first fight, making it ache with cold, shivery pulses.

Slade steps over him as Dick grits his teeth against a groan, and a casual nudge of one calf closes the toilet back up into the wall. The muted rush of water behind the panel isn't even over before Slade's hand is closing around his throat. It's enough pressure to make him choke just a little bit; Slade doesn't pay his reaction any attention except to smile before dragging him towards the door. He can't get his feet under him, and even if he could the direction is all wrong; with his back to the floor there's nothing he could do but some kind of awkward crab shuffle anyway.

Smooth metal changes to carpet, and just a couple moments later his back hits the edge of the bed. It's soft, but the collision isn't gentle and still pulls a grunt from between Dick's teeth before he can strangle it down. His gaze flicks up to Slade's now that he can meet it, but only in time for Slade to shove him over onto his stomach, hand leaving his throat and fisting in his hair instead. Alright, hands cuffed and bent over the edge of a bed; that's more familiar.

Except then the cuffs come off with a sharp click, and the hand in his hair softens to slide fingers across his scalp instead. The cuffs are set down right in front of his face.

"I'm going to go sit down, boy," Slade tells him, stroking fingers down across his neck, then along his spine with just enough pressure for him to feel it through his uniform. "Strip out of all of this, then come to me. Bring the cuffs."

Dick doesn't let himself make any sound of relief as Slade moves away, even though he feels it. It's a false relief anyway; this isn't over by a long shot.

Getting to his feet is the easy part, and if this were Bruce maybe he'd tease, put on a show, but frustration prompts him to be perfunctory about removing his clothes. His gaze stays fixed across the room, away from where he can just barely see Slade sitting in his peripheral vision. It's not as much of a pause as he'd like, but it's enough for him to rein his temper back in and force himself to be calm. That's the only way he's going to get through this.

The cuffs are a weighty, physical reminder of his own choice, but Dick doesn’t let himself hesitate in picking them up.

Slade is sitting in the armchair set near the corner, beside the shelf set aside for Dick's trophies and the armoire locked to only he or Bruce's fingerprints. It's angled towards the bed, and Slade wouldn't know but that's where Bruce always sits when he comes to visit in person. When they have the time to play longer, drawn out games where Bruce just sits and watches him writhe. It's uncomfortable to see an unfamiliar face there.

Dick crosses the room, not bothering to put any sway into his hips or seduction in his gaze. Why should he? If Slade wants it he can demand or imply it, otherwise Dick has no intention of making himself a more cooperative target.

There's something in Slade's hand, something he's spinning between his fingers. It's not till Dick draws to a halt in front of him that he can identify what it is. A dermal regenerator; nothing strange, but it feels out of place and Dick can't help but narrow his eyes at it.

"Here," Slade orders, with a flick of his free fingers towards his lap. "Back to me."

Dick's never liked putting his back to anyone, never mind someone with his life in their hands, but he pushes through that innate dislike. He steps around Slade's legs, bracing his empty hand against one arm of the chair so he can turn his back and lower himself down into Slade's lap. Hands take his waist when he settles, tugging him further back and then letting go to take the cuffs from his hand. It's not real surprising to have his wrists taken, one by one, and locked back into the restraints. Irritating, but not surprising.

The tug that pulls him back against Slade's chest is one he can't resist, like the hands that slide down his thighs and then lift each leg to settle over opposite arms of the chair. It's at least a decently comfortable position, even if it does leave Dick more exposed than he wants to be. Not that being exposed is something to be hung up on, all things considered.

The dermal regenerator clicks on with a faint, high-pitched hum.

It isn't until the instrument passes over a forming bruise high on his chest — one of the spots Slade hit him in their 'fight' — that it actually occurs to Dick that it might just be used for its intended purpose. He is bruised in places, he's sure. Slade hit too hard and too deep for him not to bruise, even if he hasn't gotten any chance to actually look yet. But why would Slade do that? Dick can understand wiping out the bruising on his face, but random, deep-tissue bruising on the rest of his body? Why bother? Surely Slade is intending to hurt him at _some_ point.

He doesn't ask, and Slade doesn't offer any reason. Whatever it is, Dick can't stop himself from feeling just a little grateful. A couple lingering passes of the regenerator and his shoulder stops aching, and with the removal of pain from that and all those other tender spots his muscles actually have a chance to relax. He ends up eased back against Slade's chest, eyes closed and offering no resistance as Slade wipes the last of the soreness away.

The very last to go is the damage to his face. His chin is taken in careful fingers, tilted away as the regenerator passes over his cheek in clean, even strokes. Almost like a shave more than medical attention. It clicks off then, but Slade's fingers linger.

"There we go; good as new." A small chuckle, fingertips following the curve of his jaw. "Or good as used, I suppose. Why don’t you show me just what that means, Captain? Go on and open that armoire for me.”

Dick doesn’t let himself react. He opens his eyes, gives as calm of a, “Yes, sir,” as he can, and slips his legs off the armchair to get back to his feet. Slade doesn’t stop him, or offer to unlock the cuffs to make this any easier, so he just crosses the space between the armchair and the armoire and half-turns to get his hand on the panel.

It’s a logical jump for Slade to make, but that doesn't mean that Dick likes that he did. Obviously, Slade’s explored his rooms. No other collection of toys and just one piece of locked storage area doesn’t exactly make for a hard puzzle; simple enough to assume he keeps his tools and toys in the only place left. What Dick mostly doesn't like is that these are _his_ tools. Broken in and carefully separated depending on what he uses them for.

The armoire clicks open with a faint beep, and Dick hears the fabric on the armchair shift just a moment before Slade is suddenly close to his back. That brief warning is probably the only thing that stops him from tensing, both at the proximity and then at the hand that clasps over his shoulder and pushes him easily to his knees. He doesn't fight it, but the grip is strong enough he's not certain he could have anyway. The change in height means Dick's at eye level with the middle of the armoire, and there's not much else for him to look at except the contents when Slade pulls the doors open.

There's a drawer in the bottom that holds his knives and other more dangerous things (things he doesn't want just anyone seeing, unless he's planning on using them), but otherwise everything is carefully either hung up on display or sitting on one of the shelves. All of it, divided right down the middle. His collection is something put together over his entire career, he's fond of most pieces in it, but it's also not all technically _his_.

The left half, that unequivocally belongs to him. The instruments and toys there might get used on anyone he feels like, from disobedient subordinates to some civilian with a pretty set of eyes. Anyone that doesn't mean anything real to him. The right side, however, is Bruce's. Those he mostly uses on himself, at Bruce's command. It's not the same as Bruce being there in person, but Dick isn't about to complain about the distance when the distance is the product of having his own ship.

All it really means is a little less sex, and a little more fucking himself in any way he physically can in front of the loving eye of a communication screen. Somehow, he manages.

"You a masochist, Grayson?" Slade asks, hand resting on his shoulder.

Even if his life weren't hanging in the balance, Dick doesn't think there's much point in lying. It's not exactly a hard thing to figure out.

"No, sir."

"I didn't think so, which means _these_ …” Slade trails his fingers over the hanging displays of instruments on the left side of the open doors (two floggers, a crop, one coiled whip... All Dick's favorites). "These must be your tools. You prefer to inflict pain, hm? You don't strike me as particularly sadistic, so it must be something about the power; you do seem to like being in control.”

Dick’s not about to add information unless he’s asked to, so he doesn’t correct or agree with the guess. Even though it’s accurate. It’s less about the pain for him, and more about the way people look at him after and the way he can dig his fingers into someone and make them dance in whatever way he wants them to. When they get desperate and start to really _beg_. When Dick’s just playing around, that tends to be the point he sets pain aside and returns to something more pleasant for both parties. If they haven’t earned worse.

Slade shifts down to kneel behind him, one arm looping around his torso and pulling him tight to Slade’s chest. “Which means that this other side here must be what your admiral plays with. That right, boy?”

“All of it belongs to me,” Dick answers, avoiding the question and not _quite_ lying.

“Hm.” Slade reaches past him with his free hand, pulling his crop from its hook with sure fingers.

It _snaps_ down across Dick’s inner thigh.

He yelps, as much from how dangerously close it is to his cock as from the actual pain. The next inhalation is barely sucked between his teeth before the crop comes down again, opposite thigh. His legs jerk slightly apart, and nearly instantly the tip of the crop is pressing up against his balls. Dick freezes, the sharp sting of his thighs reminding him how much it will _hurt_ if that crop hits anywhere more tender. It wouldn’t be the first time, but Dick does his best to avoid any intense genital pain when he can manage it.

“I don’t particularly like being lied to,” Slade murmurs, close to his ear. “And you didn’t answer my question, boy. I _can_ use your toys, but maybe we can play with something a bit more fun if you’re honest about the rest of this collection.”

The crop slides up underneath his limp cock, lifting it and tracing the length in a slow slide. It almost feels good, if not for the implicit threat in the action.

“Would you like to try a different answer, Grayson?”

Dick can’t help how he flinches as the crop taps the head of his cock, even though the pressure’s light enough it doesn’t even sting. Okay, fair enough. No lying, no misreading questions; understood.

He swallows, pushing away the urge to shiver as the crop slides further down. “They’re mine, but most of them were gifts and they’re for use with me only. Only he and I ever use them.”

The crop stays, as Slade hums a small noise, fingers of the arm wrapped around Dick’s torso sliding across his side. “Meaning that Wayne uses them on you, but you keep them so you can use them on yourself if he orders it. Or if you want to record him something special.” A tap of the crop, almost idle except for how it makes Dick give another full-body flinch. “Judging by that collection, he’s also much more fond of control than pain; lucky for you.”

Maybe Dick shouldn’t, but he considers the risk for a moment before asking, “What about you?”

It gets him a small laugh instead of a smack with the crop, so apparently it wasn’t offensive enough for Slade to mind.

Slade leans into him, mouth coming to his ear as he murmurs, “I’m variable.” The amused sound Slade gives as Dick fights not to grit his teeth proves that he knows exactly how unhelpful that answer was to him. “Pretty, difficult boys like you are just my type though. The ones that don’t think there’s anyone more dangerous than they are, or that they’re clever enough to get around the ones that are.”

The crop slides away from him, tracing along the inside of one of his thighs till Slade lifts it back to its spot in the display. Dick’s careful not to show his relief at that, just like he’s careful not to show any trepidation as Slade grazes his fingers across some of the other toys in there. He tries to mentally talk himself down as he watches, reminding himself that the tool doesn’t matter nearly as much as the hand wielding it. It’s not the _things_ he should be nervous about, it’s the unknown quantity at his back.

"Why don't we start simple?" Slade suggests, fingers sliding away from the toys. "Just a chance for you to show me if that mouth of yours is good for anything but what it looks like. And while you're at it…” Dick watches as Slade reaches up and takes the bottle of lube from where it sits, beneath the side that's his. "You can multitask, can't you, boy?"

Dick feels the lips graze his ears, as the bottle of lube is pressed against his stomach. "Always been pretty good at it."

He's got a sneaking suspicion that the cuffs aren't going to come off for this particular challenge. The angle's not going to be great, but he can do it. He's done it before. Maybe not while getting his throat fucked at the same time, but Dick's managed trickier things than that.

Slade chuckles, the arm around his chest sliding away till the hand is only lightly gripping his waist. "Why don't you pick one thing out? Something interesting."

It's a test as much as an opportunity, and Dick's not foolish enough to ignore those aspects. Choose something too tame, and he opens himself to being mocked and maybe punished. Something too wild, and he'll have chosen more pain than he had to; another reason to be mocked (and this time for bringing it on himself). The trick lies in finding the right balance; something he doesn't entirely want, but won't be too terrible to endure.

Dick lets his gaze skip along the collection (both sides, as much as he doesn't want Slade using anything of Bruce's), considering his options. Impact tools, he'll save as a last resort. The nastier things, down in the drawer at the bottom, he doesn't intend to even look at unless he wants to give Slade ideas. He needs something... just a _bit_ of pain, or something that can be used to push him to his limits if he's not going to involve any pain. One of the larger dildos might work, or…

Chain catches his eye, and his lips press together. Yeah, that should work. Maybe Slade's been secretive about his tastes, but Dick's sure one of those tastes is power.

The hand lets him shift forward, balancing on his knees so he can lean in and get his teeth on the delicate chain draped over one of the hooks on Bruce's side. It's simple to lift it off and settle back, twisting his head to offer it over his shoulder. Slade takes it, running his fingers along the chain till they can toy with the small clamps at either end.

"Hm."

Slade trails the chain across his shoulder, cool metal tickling his skin as it drags up along the side of his throat. It's dragged under his chin, pulled taut with both hands till it digs into his skin, forcing his neck to arch back to allow Dick to continue to breathe. Lips find his ear, teeth grazing along the shell of it with delicate, precise force. It’s a good sensation, though Dick would like it more if he knew for certain that Slade wasn’t about to bite.

The chain falls away, and instead of any comment on his choice Slade merely says, “Alright, come on, boy.”

He can feel Slade stand, and a hand curls in his hair just a moment later and tugs him to standing as well. The fingers are drawn tight, a little bit uncomfortably so, and they stay that way as Slade pulls him back to the armchair. Slade sprawls into it, legs spread wide and grip bringing Dick to his knees between them. The clamps get draped across one of the chair’s arms, the lube tucked down next to Slade’s thigh, and then his free hand comes to the fastening of his uniform. Well, Dick has the time to think, at least he’s not having to do this with just his teeth. He _could_ , but it’s a pain and he’s just as pleased to only have to deal with the cock Slade is extracting from within his clothing.

It’s big, is his first impression, and that impression is reinforced when his next one is that Slade’s only probably about half-hard. Fuck. However much of a bastard he is, Slade’s clearly not compensating for anything. He can picture how his jaw is going to ache just looking at the thing.

The thatch of hair around it is as white as what’s up above, wiry but actually fairly neatly groomed. Certain amount of vanity that goes into that, or at least an assumption that people will regularly see your crotch so it should be as put-together as you are. As the captain (Commander? What’s the actual rank here?) of a special ops group, could be both. With that kind of power you can take just about anyone you want to your bed, assuming you’re confident they won’t kill you, so if you like sex then why not have it as often as you want to?

“Cat got your tongue, Grayson?”

Dick lifts his gaze, and one eyebrow almost follows suit before he stops himself, though he’s not as quick about his mouth. “I can compliment it if you want.”

Slade laughs, hand leaving his hair and coming to pet his cheek instead, one finger nudging his chin up so their gazes meet more directly. “I’m not that insecure. Just curious if you were going to get yourself in trouble.” The fingers slide to his lips, tracing the corner of his mouth as Slade watches its path. His voice is lower when he adds, “Careful, boy; your mouth’s not so pretty that I won’t ruin it to prove a point.”

There’s not even a moment that Dick believes it’s a bluff. He presses his lips together and doesn’t say a thing.

“Haven’t had to hold your tongue much, have you, boy?” One of Slade’s fingers taps his lips, then pulls away as Slade straightens up a bit. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that when your mouth’s full. Why don’t we get started?”

The bottle of lube is the first target, and Slade reaches past him to press it at the base of his neck. Dick has just a moment to understand, and arch his back a little bit, before Slade lets it go and it half-falls and half-slides down. He twists his hands enough to catch it as it hits his cuffed wrists. It's trickier doing it without being able to see, but Dick manages to get the bottle open and some of it drizzled out onto his fingers. He's careful to set it down as close as he can, just in case he needs more.

He has to arch his back a little to get his fingers where they need to be, which brings his head back up to look at Slade. Not even watching, just running the chain of the clamps through his fingers with idle interest, for a moment anyway. Then he leans forward onto his knees, and Dick holds still apart from the slide of his finger as Slade’s hand palms his chest. Two fingers tease his nipples into stiffer nubs with experienced ease, sending little zings of sensation down into his gut. Then the clamps approach, and Dick doesn’t let himself do anything but set his jaw a little.

(He’d take this gladly, for _Bruce_ , but he’s never liked pain and he’s never cared to endure it for anyone except his—)

It comes down, a sharp bite that makes him lock sound behind his teeth, Dick has enough time to take a small breath before the second clamp closes as well. He can’t quite restrain the grunt that this one draws, or how his expression tightens a little bit as Slade lightly flicks one clamp to spark a fresh _zing_ that’s remarkably less pleasant than the ones of before.

Slade’s got the chain linking them in one hand, and Dick keeps a careful eye on how he slowly winds it around his fingers, drawing the slack tighter until Dick makes the preemptive decision to arch into it to avoid the pain that will come with the clamps actually tugging at him.

It gets him a smirk, and a drawled, “That’s a good look on you, boy. Might be fun to keep you on a leash like this all the time. Or…” Slade’s gaze slides down his chest. “One attached a little more securely.”

Yeah, leading him around by the dick sounds exactly like the kind of power play that might appeal to someone interested in ‘taming’ him.

Slade’s other hand comes to his hair, cupping nearly the entire back of his head with the breadth of it and pulling him lightly forward. “Maybe later. Come on, boy. Show me what that mouth of yours can do.”

‘Captain one of the best ships in the fleet’ doesn’t seem like an acceptable answer, no matter how much he wants to say it with a _smile,_ so Dick obeys the instruction. He follows the guide of Slade’s hand, lowering his head to the half-hard length of his cock sitting there.

The taste’s not bad at least, he discovers as he slides his tongue out to lap at it. He’d sooner bite the stupid thing off, but if he does have to suck it at least it’s been recently washed. Plus, this way he gets to gauge how big it’s going to get sometime before he’s getting fucked with it, and of course Slade’s going to fuck him. Sooner rather than later, if his multitasking preparation is any indication.

Well, he could delay it. If he gets Slade off now, maybe it gets him some sort of a break before recovery. Worth a try, anyway, as long as Slade's not too brutal about the blowjob. Might get him some extra time to prepare and make sure that the actual fucking doesn't hurt too, which is always nice. People that fuck for power or for dominance aren't always considerate enough to make sure that's the case; why care about your target's comfort when the only point is to prove you're better? Dick's done it himself, on occasion, but he doesn't appreciate when it's done to him.

It's not difficult to get Slade fully hard, once he sets his mind to it. He explores the outside skin, licking and flicking his tongue across it till it juts upwards all on its own, fully hard but thankfully not all that much bigger than it was. Good, Dick wouldn't have been eager to have to deal with a full-on, porn-length cock. What a literal pain in the ass. Luckily, Slade's only above-average instead. Bigger than Bruce is, and every other cock he's dealt with far as Dick recalls, but not as big as some of the toys that Bruce owns. (Pushing limits is a favorite game, and Bruce isn't opposed to spending hours stretching him open, inch by inch, just to fulfill that kink.)

He goes for the head then, drawing it between his lips with a flutter of his eyelashes and a glance up through them. The reaction — just a small smile — is a lot less than he was expecting. He tries a flicker of his tongue beneath the head, at the prominent, sensitive vein there, and only gets a faint increase in the curl of Slade's lips. Like he's more amused at the effort than he is affected by it.

Dick doesn't want to think about the little curdling of unease in the pit of his stomach at that non-reaction. He tilts his gaze down and pushes it all aside, focusing on working at Slade's cock as if it were anyone else's.

The head fits easily in his mouth, but the further he goes the more his lips and jaw have to stretch open. It's not painful, but just like he thought when he was looking at it, he can tell that more than a few minutes of this is going to make his jaw ache. So it aches; he's not going to get this done that quickly so he's just going to have to live with that. He's good at this, he knows he is, and Slade's heavy in his mouth, the musk and smell of sex a strong scent in his nose as he carefully breathes around his work, and all the while balances to slide his fingers as well.

Slade's hand stays in his hair, resting but not guiding at all, though Dick remains wary of that changing. Like he remains wary of the other hand, still holding the chain for the clamps. He's not eager to choke if it pulls when he's not expecting it to, or if Slade suddenly pushes his head down or gets him off balance. It's a lot of different things to split his attention between, but he forces himself to manage. He has to.

He's up to three fingers, his thighs starting to ache from the strain of balancing, when Slade suggests, "Why don't you try all the way, Captain?" in a perfectly cool, amused tone. "I'm sure you can manage that, assuming your admiral isn't a little… underwhelming."

Anger washes up his chest, far hotter than any of the reluctant arousal making his cock hard. The only reason Dick doesn't snap some demeaning or sarcastic comment back, to inevitably cost him his life or his looks, is because his mouth is full. His gaze snaps up though, expression tightening into a glare as the urge to just _bite_ crawls up his throat. He could do it. It'd cost him his life but it would be agony and maybe even a permanent loss if he mangles it badly enough. _Severs_ it. All he has to do is just—

The look in Slade's eye freezes his thoughts in their tracks. Amused, but there's steel behind it.

Not an idle comment; a test. It's a test. Slade is waiting to see his reaction.

That look numbs his anger out, replacing it with a cold, unsettled feeling that twists his stomach. Slade is _baiting_ him, despite the damage he could do. Maybe because of it. The idea that he doesn't care if Dick bites down… What sort of man doesn't care about pain like that? About potential mutilation? That sort of nerve… Dick's never met anyone with nerve like that.

It's one thing to be at the mercy of a powerful man, with your life in their hands and only good behavior to hold off danger, but Dick thought that the threat of Bruce's vengeance would be enough to keep Slade from killing him unless he really messed up. Even if Bruce can't do anything officially, he has the power to reach almost every corner of the empire. Even a member of Section Thirty-One, Bruce could surely do _something_ to. But a man that doesn't fear pain? The loss of his cock? Why would a bit of vengeance scare a man like that? (What else could he be capable of?)

Dick shivers when Slade's fingers move across his scalp, combing once through his hair before returning to their place. “Give it a try,” he says, and Dick hears it as a dare before he remembers the original demand.

His hesitance has nothing to do with deciding whether or not he’s going to obey, and everything to do with trying to get his mind to stop spinning around the fact that there’s suddenly no protection here. Every action is another balancing step along a knife’s edge, and the only thing to break his fall if he slips is the blade itself.

Slade’s hand pets his hair once more. “As much as I appreciate your newfound respect, Grayson, I asked you to do something. Can you focus? Or do I have to make you?”

Dick can’t exactly respond with his mouth full, but he closes his eyes for a moment and takes as deep a breath as he can in through his nose, steeling himself against all the unnerved thoughts clamoring for his attention. Survive now, think _later_.

Carefully, he shifts forward on his knees a little bit, rising up just enough to get a slightly better angle despite how it makes his already taxed thighs protest more. The hand in his hair is still just a reminder, nothing but a gentle weight, and Dick does his best to ignore it as he relaxes his jaw as much as he can and slides forward. He has no way to catch himself if he overbalances, so he’s slow about it. Works at sliding back and forth and taking just a little more each time, bit by bit, until the head is pressing at the back of his throat. Not a comfortable sensation, but one he’s familiar with.

A flicker of his eyes tells him he still has some length to go.

Slade’s fingers draw tight in his hair.

“You seem to be having a little trouble multitasking,” Slade comments, which is exactly when Dick realizes that his fingers have fallen still in all the distraction. “Why don’t I take this over for you, so you can focus on your hands?”

There’s no opportunity to answer, and it’s not really a question anyway.

The hand in his hair pushes down, and Dick has no choice but to go with it. It’s not rough, but it’s unrelenting; Slade’s cock sliding into his throat past what’s comfortable, where Dick has to fight his gag reflex and just force himself to let it happen. It’s _fine_ , he’s done this before, let Bruce do this before with toys of equal length. He can _take_ this.

Hair finally brushes his nose, coarse and wiry. His lips and jaw are stretched wide, and Slade's hand keeps him held there for several long moments with a grip he doesn't dare trying to fight, cock pressed too far into his throat for him to breathe. It’s impossible for Dick to not think about it, but regardless he forces himself to focus and do what Slade wanted from him; he can’t fail here.

“Good boy.” Slade’s voice is an amused drawl, seemingly unaffected by the fact that he’s got his cock buried in Dick’s throat. “See? That’s not so hard, is it?”

It’s pretty damn _hard_ , but Dick can’t exactly voice that thought so he just pries his eyes open and looks up. It’s only by the virtue of Slade leaning back in the chair that their gazes can meet. Slade smiles down at him, fingers loosening just enough to adjust their grip on his hair as Dick feels his lungs start to protest the lack of air. His shoulders twitch.

Slade holds him there a few moments longer, until he jerks more sharply, and then finally drags him back far enough he can suck in a breath through his nose. Then down again, and the rhythm begins.

He doesn’t get held down there, but there’s little allowance given for him to breathe in the pattern. Slade’s pace is steady, and as unrelenting as it began though Dick’s a little surprised to find that it isn’t rough. He’s not being yanked back and forth or slammed down hard enough to make him gag, he’s just being… used. A little irritating (there are better uses of his mouth than as a _sleeve_ , and he’s pretty good at blowjobs when he can actually _participate_ in them), but it’s better than the alternatives. Timing his inhalations to the shallowest parts of Slade’s pattern is easy enough, since it stays consistent, and there’s discomfort to it but not outright pain. Nothing he hasn’t done before. It’s actually… not bad.

Getting hard is really too much of an inevitability for Dick to feel anything about it but a small spark of annoyance.

Slade… never seems to get any closer to coming. He’s undeniably hard, and there’s definitely some precome when Dick gets far enough back to get any on his tongue, but there’s no other physical signs. Dick can only get glances without risking his own distraction, but Slade’s expression isn’t changing and his hips are staying flat on the chair instead of flexing upwards. Like this is just _good_ , not anything that might actually make him come.

Dick accepts, reluctantly, that he’s not going to be getting Slade off to delay things. With his hands busy, and no control over the pace of the blowjob — which is staying too deep for him to do much of anything with his tongue — he doesn’t have any way to influence things. Whether or not Slade gets off is entirely up to _Slade_ , unfortunately.

He doesn’t seem to have any plans to. Dick works to three easy fingers, considers the width of the cock in his mouth and adds a fourth, since he’s not being stopped. Slade’s pace stays the same.

Finally, Slade pulls him further back instead of pulling him down once again, with a quiet, “That’s enough, boy. You can stop.”

Dick’s grateful to fall still, slipping his fingers out and easing the arch of his back he’s had to maintain to be able to reach. Slade pulls him off the last couple inches of his cock, and Dick’s a little too hazed to stop himself from working his jaw and wincing slightly at the ache.

By Slade’s chuckle, he takes it as amusing instead of an insult. Fingers stroke through Dick’s hair, then down to slide along his jaw and pass a thumb over his lips. Dick’s well aware of the sight he makes after a blowjob; reddened lips and flushed cheeks, eyes gone dark. Slade is apparently as taken with it as everyone else he’s serviced.

“Not bad,” is all he gets, though. No smile, not even a pleased tone. Just an idle comment.

Slade pushes him back enough to give himself room to stand, fingers letting go entirely, though the other hand maintains its grip on the chain of the clamps. A small tug of it encourages him to stand as well, and this time Dick manages to restrain the wince when his thighs protest the change in position with a sharp twinge of pain. Luckily they aren’t bad enough to threaten to fold under him, since Slade gives little allowance as he leads him towards the bed. Dick half expects to get bent over it, but Slade’s grip on the chain guides him up onto the mattress instead and towards the head of it.

The chain is released, and Dick gets just a moment to steel himself before Slade’s fingers are squeezing down on one clamp and pulling it off. It stings, but the worst part is the moment afterwards where the blood rushes back in and makes his whole nipple light with pain. He grits his teeth but refuses to make a sound, and Slade chuckles and pulls the other clamp off as well. This time the groan escapes before he can fully strangle it.

He watches warily, but Slade only discards the clamps towards the other side of the bed and shifts closer to him. A hand between his shoulder blades pushes him flat against the sheets (he nearly hisses at the brush of it against his newly tender skin), before sliding down and unlocking one cuff to release his arms.

Biometric lock, must be. Keyed to Section Thirty-One members? Inconvenient, but not impossible to get around.

“Hands up,” Slade orders, trailing fingers up his spine. “And get up on your knees.”

Dick obeys, and at this point he’s really not remotely surprised that Slade takes his wrists — resting on the pillow above his head, as ordered — and feeds the cuffs through the headboard to secure him again. He doesn’t honestly know whether it’s caution or just kink, but he expects he’ll be in restraints more often than not in this game. Wrapping his hands around the headboard to hold on is more an automatic reaction than anything else, but when thought catches up he agrees with it. If Slade fucks with half the power he displayed in their fight, Dick’s going to want something to brace against. This headboard’s held against Bruce’s games, it can stand this too.

Slade gets off the bed, and Dick turns his head to watch as he starts to strip. His skin’s a lighter shade than most, scattered scars faded and healed down to mainly flat marks, but still telling the story of at least a dozen of what must have been near-fatal injuries. Nothing fresh. Under that is hard muscle. Biceps that Dick’s only seen the equal of among disciplinary officers, and a chest with defined planes that play under the skin with every shift of movement. He hasn't seen many physiques as nice as that.

Dick hates almost everything about this, but he can admit, however grudgingly, that Slade is pretty damn good looking. If there'd been a choice, maybe he'd have tried for a ride anyway. On his _own_ terms.

The bed dips slightly as Slade gets back onto it. Hands press his thighs apart, then skim up to cup either side of his ass and spread it as well. It's too familiar a feeling to be humiliating, really, so Dick just closes his eyes and waits for the next step. Which comes just a moment later, with heat and pressure shoving into him in one long, smooth slide. He shudders, bites into his lip not to moan. Even with the preparation he did, it's a _lot_. Not enough to hurt, but he can feel the stretch, the _weight_ of it in him as Slade's hands take his hips and the last bit settles inside him. He's taken bigger things before, but nothing that's felt so undeniably alive. Hot and with just a bit of give, nothing like the rigidity and initial coolness of toys.

Slade gives a satisfied-sounding hum, fingers squeezing around his hips. "I can see why your admiral keeps you, boy. Takes a lot to invite someone as dangerous as you into a bed, but an ass like this might just be worth it. If you don't mind watching for a knife."

There's not any chance given to respond.

Slade starts to move, and Dick's glad to be holding onto the headboard. It's not that Slade is rough, but just like the blowjob he's steady and he's unrelenting. Each thrust jolts Dick forward, especially when Slade shifts angles to be fucking right up against his prostate with every slide. It feels pretty damn good.

Dick gives up on trying to restrain his reactions. It's not like Slade doesn't clearly know the effect he's having regardless, and it only makes him look weak to be failing at controlling himself. Reciprocating isn't exactly something that Dick can manage right now, and he wouldn't want to even if he could, but he lets the moans come and his body twist how it wants to. He was hard before, but any hint of flagging is gone now and there's a tight ball gathering at the base of his spine. It's slow, without a hand on his cock, but if things go on like this it might not matter.

The cuffs are tight against his wrists, no matter how he pulls against them, and Dick's just a little bit ashamed that he likes how it feels so much. Maybe it's just conditioned enjoyment (Bruce's very favorite toys are always restraints), but Dick could do without getting off on being tied down.

One hand releases his hip, sliding up his side and then his ribs till it reaches his chest. Slade's pace slows some as he leans down, pressing up along his back and pressing lips against the back of Dick's neck. There's just a hint of teeth, but the fingers circling around his nipples have hold of Dick's attention. They're sensitive, and his breath shortens a little bit as he braces for a pinch, but Slade's touch stays at firm instead of painful. The roll of his fingers sends little shocks of pleasure ricocheting down Dick's spine.

He's panting, and Slade's mouth starts to suck marks into his neck and shoulders that only add to the heat under his skin. It's a low ache, a wet one, and the hand at his chest keeps him pinned back against Slade's. He feels just as dwarfed as he sometimes does under Bruce, just as out of control.

Pushing back against Slade, letting his legs slide a little further apart, are both reactions he chooses not to fight. To hell with all of it; he's going to enjoy this.

"That's right," Slade murmurs against his neck. "Feels good, doesn't it, boy?"

It takes Dick a moment, and a threatening almost-pinch of one nipple, to realize that Slade expects an answer from him.

"Yes," he gasps, and then Slade thrusts into him a little harder, at _just_ the right angle, and he has to follow it with a louder, " _Fuck_. Yes, _yes_."

Slade's laugh is a little breathless. "Can you come like this? Or do you want a hand on your cock, boy?"

Dick grits his teeth as a little flash of anger raises his hackles, his fingers curling back around the metal headboard. So _that's_ the game. Make him beg, make him humiliate himself. Not one that he's fond of, even when he's doing it with someone he actually enjoys sleeping with, but there's no choice. Whatever the game, he has to play along.

He thinks for a second, tries to consider his own body and what he's been able to do with it before. What Bruce has.

"Yes, and _yes_." Dick strangles a moan, then pushes himself back against Slade and forces his voice to go sweet and breathless, "I can ask nicely if you want, sir."

The chuckle is warm, the breath against his neck even more so. "Maybe later, when you actually mean it, Captain. We can be simple this time."

Slade's other hand leaves his hip, sliding around it and circling his cock with a loose grasp. Just enough that when he bucks into it, his cock slides through the tunnel of his hand. It makes Dick arch a little bit, moan, and Slade picks his pace back up. Dick can only hang on for the ride.

It's not long at all before he's teetering on the edge, and each powerful thrust drives him ever closer to falling off. Each one knocks him forward, into Slade's hand, and he's caught between the two sensations. He feels strung out between the hands and cock assaulting him, with only the metal of the headboard and Slade's chest at his back as grounding points. A beard scrapes against his skin as Slade's mouth stays pressed close to his neck. Sweat slicks both their skins.

"That's it, boy," Slade says against his throat, voice low and rougher now. "Let go. _Come_."

It's not even a question of trying to resist. Dick falls as though he's been shoved off the edge, and he draws tight beneath Slade's bulk as he cries out. Slade fucks him through the duration, as pleasure whites out his senses and the pressure against his prostate makes him want to scream, and Dick shakes as a second cry is dragged out of his throat. The hand on his chest is as strong as it was, and it's probably the only thing that keeps him held up as tightness slides away to loose exhaustion.

Slade's still fucking him, but Dick doesn't even get together enough to think about complaining (or what a bad idea it might be) before there's a last couple thrusts and then a deep groan from above him. Dick struggles to even out his breathing as Slade stills above him, hand letting go of his cock and coming to grip his hip instead. It's wet against his skin.

A few moments pass before Slade starts to pull away, hands sliding away from him as he pulls out, not yet softened. Dick braces on his elbows, dipping his head to catch his breath.

Hands grab his thighs and flip him in one sharp movement.

Dick yelps, trying to scoot away on instinct but getting pinned down by two powerful hands. Slade is shifting back over him, pressing his thighs apart and sliding right back into him. He arches, hands pulling sharply at the cuffs and his thighs pushing in against Slade's hands. The grip on Dick's thighs is immovable though, and he's still _hard_.

Slade smirks down at him. "Easy, boy. You didn't think we were done, did you?"


End file.
